Old
by Sable Supernova
Summary: Bathilda's mind isn't what it once was now old age has a firm grip on her. But it's better in the mornings. She can think clearly in the mornings; she isn't confused about ordinary things. The mornings are her safe haven... until they're not. Oneshot.


Written for:  
Ultimate Chocolate Frog Cards Club: Cordelia Misericordia - Write about an elderly witch.  
200 Characters in 200 Days: Bathilda Bagshot

909 words

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 **Old**

The old woman awoke just before sunset, as she often did these days. She didn't seem to need to sleep as much as she used to, despite the fatigue that had captured her. Her muscles hung limp, wasting away on her fragile, aching bones. She pulled herself out of bed, slipping her feet into her favourite fluffy beige slippers, and wrapped her night robe around herself. She'd been up in the night more than once to use the bathroom, but the weak muscles around her bladder forced her to the toilet again.

She didn't look at the mirror as she passed. She knew what she'd see, and it saddened her every time. The liver spots seemed to grow more prominent with each passing week. She'd never lived hedonistically and wasn't much of a drinker, but still her organs were beginning to suffer and degrade: her own body was failing her. Her eyes, once a bright, brilliant green, were now faded to shades of grey, as if a film had been placed over them in her sleep that she couldn't shake off. The veins in her cheeks - the ones that, once upon a time, caused her to blush with embarrassment in the face of a new lover or gave her a vivid colour, full of life, when she was out and about in the cold and the wind - those very same veins now stood useless, broken and prominent on her face, as if the skin that had covered them had wasted away to nothingness.

She was old. It was now, in the mornings when her mind was at its sharpest, that she knew it most clearly. It was like in the mornings, she hadn't yet remembered all that she once knew, all that she lived through, so her mind forgot how confused it could get. It never stayed that way as the day wore on. Her house was filled with trinkets and memories - the gifts from friends and family stood beside her proudest academic works - and the more she looked at them, the more she struggled to recall what was what and what came from whom. It all became muddled and disorientated inside her head until there was nothing left in her own home that made sense to her anymore - not even her.

Leaving the bathroom, she returned to her bedroom and picked up her old hairbrush - the one with pig's hair bristles like she used to use as a child - and began to comb out what was left of her hair. She brushed her hair every morning, and every morning left her more convinced she was leaving more strands on the comb than on her head. The brush, she remembered, had been a gift from an old friend. But was it, she wondered, Elphias or Muriel? Yesterday, she was sure, she'd been able to remember. She placed the brush back down on the vanity table, the one with the covered mirror, and stood to head downstairs.

It was her morning routine, and it was simple, but she was sure it kept her grounded. It was breakfast time, you see. She always ate before she washed and dressed. As a younger woman, she would dress first, but it seemed pointless to her now to dress before the sun was up to see her. It was a luxury she'd grown used to allowing herself. The kettle was the first thing to go on, filled with water and placed on the stove. She pulled her wand to light the gas top, pleased with herself for remembering the correct spell. It was the little things, she decided. With arthritic fingers, she raised the lid on the bread bin to take out a slice of bread. She'd learned how to use a muggle toaster some fifty years ago now, when they were new and exciting, and she still revelled in the device. She didn't eat much these days, so a single slice with her favourite accompaniment suited her fine. She placed the bread in the toaster, began to turn, and stopped.

She was looking for… what was it now? Her favourite spread for toast. She had it every day. It was sweet, and it had… was it some sort of fruit? For the life of her, she couldn't remember its name. It didn't matter, she decided. A name was just a name. Easily forgotten. But was it in the cupboard or the fridge?

The kettle began to whistle. Bathilda lifted her wand to quieten the heat beneath it. She must have been trying to remember the toast thing for longer than she'd thought - she usually had her teacup ready by now. The toaster popped, the toast done and hot. Bathilda didn't move. A kettle full of hot water was no use without her teacup and tea leaves, let alone milk. The toast was no good without something to put on it. The small slip of her memory had thrown her routine off. She was left with too many things to do at once, and her mind couldn't order the thoughts. They were fighting for attention inside her, pushing out all other thoughts, and Bathilda soon lost track of how to do any of it. She didn't usually have to think about it, and it was the thinking that upset her mind the most. Instead, she sat down, exhausted. Maybe, she wondered, she wasn't hungry after all.

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 **A/N:** So, this started as a drabble, and I just sort of kept writing and next thing I knew, it was 900 words... It would be really great if you could let me know what you thought, though. It's something a little new for me as a writer.


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